Not Meant to Be
by screamingwindchime
Summary: Sergei Dragunov is tasked to protect the Rochefort family for two months, along with another Spetsnaz operative, Nikolai. Shenanigans, mystery-solving, and pastries!
1. Chapter I

Not Meant to Be.

A Lili and Dragunov Fan Fiction

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Tekken, Russia, or Monaco. If I did, though…

Summary: Sergei Dragunov is tasked to protect the Rochefort family for two months, along with another Spetsnaz operative, Nikolai. Slightly humourous and minutely romantic, mostly narrative. [It gets better when you read it.] PS: Please read and review!

Author's Note: Man, it's been long since I've last written anything fanfiction-y. Sorry if it's kinda sloppy. Sorry if the plot's kind of slow, too. I promise it'll get better, because my first chapters are usually slow. And this will only last for about 3-5 chapters, cause I can't commit to writing a piece for long. :]

Anyways, here's the Prologue and first Chapter! Hope you guys like it. Please read and review!

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**Prologue**

It isn't possible. Or is it? I've been questioning myself. Was it possible… for _her_ to… love me? I doubt it. I, a Spetsnaz, and she, a Monegasque princess, only have in common our love for the fight. Without that, neither of us would have a fighting chance to survive in the same room for less than a half-second.

Yet the harsh, unforgiving Siberian Blizzards had taught me to savor warmth while I had it. It was the one thing we, Spetnaz operatives, were allowed to have. We were not our own, we were trained to have ever-Stoic expressions on our faces wherever and whenever. We were trained to fight, to do our job, and to do it well. We have no leisure time, we don't hop on planes and _decide_ to go to Hawaii. Our job was dangerous, and we were never safe, even if we were some of the top dogs, on a global military scale.

Three weeks ago, I was assigned to safeguard a Monegasque family. They made a very good choice for picking my squad mate Nikolai and I, as we were the best hand-to-hand combaters on the frontlines of Russian Infiltrative services.

We were sent over immediately—after Nikolai and I had our basic things packed—on a military jet. Hours later, we arrived in the strange land that was Monaco. It was bright and sunny, with numerous infrastructure to be admired by your average tourist, but we weren't. We didn't go through any immigration or customs, but were dragged into a heavily armored Maserati. We were told not to look out the windows, and to pay attention to the description of the task at hand.

* * *

**Chapter I**

We were to protect after the Rocheforts, a wealthy family that was being targeted by the Mishimas. The reason why _they_ were specifically summoned was not mentioned by the man in a black suit that came to pick us up. He gave the impression of an undercover agent, but was obviously just a lawyer.

We arrived on the estate, and as soon as we got out of the Maserati, I stretched my legs. It had been a long while since I'd been on my feet for longer than ten minutes.

We were ushered into the house. We walked up a grandeuse staircase that led to the commanding, old-moneyed white house's entrance.

If the façade of the house was great, the interior was exquisite. It could be seen, the quality that went into the details. Carefully hand-carved baseboards, classic Venetian show-couches, never to be sat on, and large windows that allowed the viewer to see the vast expanse of the estate.

The owner of the house came down from yet another grandeuse staircase I hadn't noticed. It had two sides, and they both descended to face the clear glass that shielded them all.

"Mr. Sergei, Mr. Nikolai. I am Mr. Rochefort, the owner of this house and of my company. I will brief you on why you are here. Would you like to take a seat?" He said, politely. He was your typical Monegasque businessman: tall, well built, good posture, with an air of luxury and omnipotence about him, even though he was well over fifty.

Nikolai and I sat down in a plush, velvet couch, piped with gold fabric, which could have been real gold thread, for all I cared, as Mr. Rochefort had told us to. He took a seat in front of us, observing us as we sat down almost robotically. I, the man who looked like he'd never seen the sun, eyes so lightly tinged with a blue pigment that separated them from the whites of them, with chin-length black hair, half of it swept up into a half-ponytail, some wisps that were shorter graced his all too young, already scarred face. Nikolai was the complete opposite, I knew Mr. Rochefort was thinking. Nikolai had the same build as I, but he took advantage of his last mission in Brazil, and therefore was tan, with a blond crewcut, and defined, almond shaped brown eyes. Any way you put us, we were completely out of place, out of sync.

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "You must be wondering why I have you here."

I nodded.

"Well, I have reason to believe that operatives from the Mishima Zaibatsu have come to my home office and taken several important files from my computer. They've been… demanding with what they want from me. I have no security cameras on the estate, and have, therefore, no proof that they were ever even here. Just a keen-eyed butler who noted that my office's chair was set lower than it was, a mess of business magazines by the visitors' side of the table, and I saw that my computer was still turned on. I'm very obsessive about what I want, so I can work faster and more efficiently: I always turn my things off, and like my chairs elevated as high as possible since it helps my back." He paused, and looked me straight in the eye. "I have a daughter."

I lifted my eyes to meet his almost-stare, and saw worry, and something else I still can't put my finger on, in his eyes.

"She is my everything. My wife, she doesn't mind me. But Lili… she is my all. I don't want to see her get hurt. I would rather die than have anything happen to her, again." His tone was grave, and I barely even heard him say 'again.' His voice cracked as he said it, and I could tell that he really did love her.

I realized that neither Nikolai or I had spoken at all within the past 10 or so hours, so I summed up some courage to say, "You can trust us, sir. We will not let you down." Nikolai nodded.

"We are the best in our field. We will take care of this." Nikolai added.

Mr. Rochefort nodded. "I need you to patrol the estate at night, for two months. My butler will show you the grounds. I will give you anything you need. Guns, guard dogs, extra men. I hear you are both forces to be reckoned with. I hope you understand." He stood up, as did we. We shook hands.

He snapped his fingers. "Sebastian, show them the perimeter."

An old man, well over eighty, dressed in a penguin suit with his thinning white hair worn very neatly, appeared to Nikolai's right. "Right this way, sirs."

We were led out to an extravagant balcony, filled with exquisite furniture from places like Bali, the Philippines, and Japan. A staircase led us down to the garden, which was more like a well-tended field, filled with flower beds, gravel paths, and a great pond that reflected the age-old house. About a quarter of a kilometer away was a stable that, Sebastian explained, housed thoroughbreds.

"Mademoiselle Emilie has her horse in there. She's a very good rider, but she is not here today. She went to stay with her friends for the week," Sebastian said, obviously lying. I caught the trace of uneasiness in his voice. "She will come back soon. You must meet her, she is truly a lovely girl."

I wondered whether to trust him or not on that one, but for a man his age to stick with a family surrounded by intrigue and all, she really must've been nice.

The old man toured us around the estate, pointing out the main parts of the field-like expanse: The pond, where you go only at night to see the stars, the flowerbeds, that Sebastian had tended to since he had started working for the family sixty years ago, the riding area, the infinity pool parallel to the perimeter wall on the other side of the estate, which looked more like a coastline than a pool, as it spanned the estate widely and almost incessantly. The perimeter was a little ways away from the major parcels of land, perhaps 20 meters away from the pool, and 30 meters away from the adjacent sides. The front side of the perimeter was much farther away than I had originally noted, probably 60 meters from the house itself.

"Now that you know where to go, you must know this. You are to be on foot patrol from the hours of 10 pm until 7 am. You may do anything you wish in the hours prior, but I strongly oblige you to start duty at 10 pm sharp." The old man said quite sternly, and he turned to face the house again. He started walking. "Now I will show you your living quarters, if you don't mind."

We entered the house through the magnificent front doors again, and went up the grandeuse main staircase. Odd, I thought. Was he taking us to guest rooms?

He opened a double door, and light spilled from inside to the hallways. It was bright, with large windows and all-white furnishings. The bed was quite high-set, with many full pillows on it, and a cushiony white comforter on it. I noticed a small gray bag in the corner of the room, and immediately knew it was Nikolai's. I totally forgot we even had bags; we were whisked away on a mission less than 12 hours ago.

"Wow," I heard Nikolai say as he exhaled. This was the greatest room he'd had since… ever. His parents were always moving around, always finding places to settle into, then move away from. Always farther and farther away. It drove him to enlist, to hone his skills and find permanence. The former was done, the latter, partially. At least he had a sense of routine, even if it changed every once in a while.

Sebastian turned and led me to my room, shutting the door to Nikolai's as we left. Mine was further down the hall, marked by a large window with live fuchsia candy-striped Dendrobiums on a table before it. Sickeningly girly, but very nice. I'd get used to it, seeing it every day for two months, till my time here was done.

_It had to die sometime, though, didn't it?_

Pushing a single door open, Sebastian introduced me to a grandeuse hotel suite-like room, with the same furniture as Nikolai's, but larger, and with a step-out balcony which had a panoramic view of the backside of the estate. _I could get used to this._

"Mr. Rochefort knows you to be a skilled fighter and soldier. He acknowledges the fact that you are very dedicated in your work. In the hope that you will capture the blasted Zaibatsu infiltrators, he has given you the best room for relaxation in the house." Sebastian said in a breath. "Your bag is in the corner. Breakfast will be served to you by the maids, at your time of liking. Tea with Mr. Rochefort at 11 am, Lunch at 12:30 pm. Dinner depends on the kitchen's schedule, but most likely at a constant 7 pm. Do you have any allergies, digestive intolerances?"

I tried to remember. Ah, yes. "Mint," I said, quietly. "I am allergic to mint. Mostly in its emulsified or leaf form."

"That shouldn't be a bother then." Said the older man. "I'll inform the kitchen straight away."

I found it odd how he called the cooks or chefs or anyone who worked in the kitchen 'the kitchen.' Mostly, in our unit, we didn't bother to meddle in food business. We took what we got, but this place seemed to want to taper itself to me, so might as well get a good fit in there.

I admired the view from the balcony, and didn't notice how Sebastian quietly slipped out of the room to let me settle in. I walked back inside, savoring the freshness of the warm air. I felt a rush of tiredness run through me, and suddenly unpacking seemed like a torturous affair. I pawed through the contents of my ill-equipped duffel, and realized I had only taken four sets of fatigues, two undershirts, lots of underwear, and a set of my formal wear, a.k.a. worn out Spetsnaz coat, with same-color pants, a formal-looking (at least to me) collared shirt, an old red tie, and black, sleeker looking boots. Nonetheless they were kind of chunky.

I picked up an undershirt and fatigue pants, thankfully not the ones with embarrassing looking camouflage prints, like those ones Americans wear. I'd be looking downright ridiculous if I wore those.

I walked into what I thought would be a bathroom, but in place of it was a walk in closet, filled with what I assume are Mr. Rochefort's formalwear. Penguin suits and waiter-vests, to plaid tuxedos to cherry-red suits with a locker-like cabinet for custom made Italian leather shoes. I was starting to get jealous so I left, for the door adjacent to it.

The bathroom was immaculate—pure white marbled floors and walls, six foot square tub by the east wall, and a secluded looking shower parallel to it on the west wall. A large portion of the area was graced by the presence of a long chair in the center of it all, which tapered off on one end into a simple chair. The shower looked so inviting, but there was a tub, and he was given this room… might as well. I hadn't noticed the mirror until after I stripped myself of the layers of clothes I hadn't realized I was wearing, and seen the scar which formed a large x on the center of my chest. It gleamed in the light, a different shade from my alabaster skin, and also practically engraved into my chest. I looked away quickly and stepped methodically into the tub. I turned the knobs equally, hoping for a warm soak… not really. It was piping hot, but felt so much better than the ice-cold water I had to deal with daily back at home. I lingered for a while like this, waiting for the water to reach midway up the tub so I could make it warmer, or at least stop the flow of water, because I realized that if I left it at this temperature, I could either get scalded or evaporate. I didn't care, though, so I savored every second that I was submerged in this water. I yawned.

Glancing at the clock above the mirror, which read 5:48 pm, I realized how long it had been since I had been rested properly. Before we left, I had just finished a triple shift of watchtower duty. I wondered how the troop was doing back at home, the gravity of the situation beginning to sink in. I'd be here for two months. In a strange land, with weather other than blizzards and sunny blizzards. Protecting a family from the Mishima Zaibatsu.

Sinking my body in the almost simmering water, I closed my eyes and breathed, thriving in the heat of the gentle water.

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End of Chapter I, 3.9.10

Did you like it? Please review! :) Thanks!

-Cami


	2. Chapter II

A/N: God, I promise to get a better chapter up soon.

Edited: 4/3/2010 :D

FOR YOUR INFORMATIONN~ Nikolai's real name is **Nikolas Nikolaievich.** (Don't you just LOVE my creativity? :D) He is called Nikolai because there are was once an influx of Nikolases in the troop, and as a distinguishing 'mark,' he diverted from being called 'Nikolas' to being called 'Nikolai.' Mr. Rochefort continues to call him 'Mr. Nikolai' because he gets tongue tied trying to say Nikolai's surname. Hope that clears a little of this up. :)

This chapter has parts, okaay. :p I'll get to finishing part 2 later.

I promised to give a soundtrack for this. Here's a list of songs that inspired this story. Hopefully you won't guess what happens. :D You can listen to the songs to set the reading mood later on, but I call this chapter a bridge chapter, so no not really yet. :D

Not Meant to Be - Theory of A Deadman

Roses and Butterflies – Making April

So Close - Jon McLaughlin

Love Lives On – Mallary Hope

Come Back to Me – David Cook

Damned If I Do Ya – All Time Low

This Chapter is dedicated to Salysha. Cause she's cool like that~

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**Chapter II**

**Part One**

I stayed that way for a while. I stared at the immaculately white ceiling, and couldn't help but feel relaxed. I breathed deeply for about five minutes, letting the gravity of the situation saturate further into my thick, thick skull. I pondered on what I was going to do tonight, walk around the giant place? Would I do it with Nikolai by my side? What if we caught someone, do we kill him or just put him out and then kill him?

I lay there a little while longer, then, realizing how long I had been in the tub, and that the water was no longer hot, I pulled the plug and dried myself off. I avoided looking in the mirror, still afraid of seeing myself match the walls, and the grotesque scars that were drizzled all over my body.

Picking up my underwear, I saw the most recent scar I got--one on my wrist, going all around, looking almost like a disgusting skin composite bracelet. Practically a branding.

I should have brought my other gloves.

I put on the rest of my clothes, and cleared the place of any of the minimal mess I had made. I smoothed my hair back, and tied it. The wisps that fell out would come out when the rest dried up.

Twisting the doorknob, I stepped back into my room. I saw that Nikolai had already invaded it, as he was sprawled out on my bed, watching Russian television from a TV set that I hadn't even noticed, since it was apparently inside a cabinet. It was a huge LCD TV, with a cinema style surround sound system. All the more, I realized, this place was becoming more and more of a hotel. I gave a sort of half grunt in appreciation.

I wanted to sprawl out under the sky in the garden--but then I realized that would be improper. But the way Nikolai seemed to be so free around here reminded me of a 15 year old in a hotel room, all to him or herself. He had already helped himself to a cup of tea, which Sebastian probably brought in while I was in the bathroom.

"Oy, Sergei," called Nikolai, pointing to a cloth bag on a hanger, which was draped over a plush chair by the balcony window. "Get dressed."

I looked at him questioningly. I furrowed my brow and crooked my head to the side. It was the universally acknowledged body language which translated into the simple word: What?

He rolled his eyes, and tried his best to get up into a vertical position while on my bed. "Dinner tonight is at 7 p.m., with Mr. Rochefort. We're gonna discuss some things with a security person, from whom we can hire people to boss around while we're here. But you gotta dress up." He said, still pointing to the cloth bag draped on the chair. "Its an Armani tuxedo. Yours is navy blue. Mine is black, still in my room. I'll put it on later."

He gave me a teasing look, telling me that I got a funnier looking suit, probably. Dammit.

Taking a look at the time on the TV, which told me it was nearly 7 already--ten to 7 to be precise. I picked it up, and went back into the bathroom. I locked the door, for good measure.

I zipped open the cloth bag, and lo and behold, an Armani soft suit. In a shade of navy blue that reminded me of my country. I felt thankful, slightly, and then realized it suited me perfectly.

I took out the pants that came with it, and set it on the counter of the bathroom. I found a crisp, gray dress shirt for it, with a stiff, starched collar, mother of pearl cufflinks and that sort of stuff. I had no tie, which (I think) meant that this was a not-so-formal occasion.

I slipped it on, and the rest followed. I smoothed out the creases that I accidentally made, and tucked the dress shirt better into the pants. I fixed the cuffs, and pulled the coat on easily, albeit reluctantly. I'd never really felt comfortable in dressy types of clothes. I found them to be overrated, and way too impractical. Hence, the fatigues, undershirts, and single pair of formal wear.

When I got out of the bathroom, Nikolai had already left, though leaving in his place a mess of chocolate wrappers. Sigh. I picked them up, and tossed them in the bin back in the bathroom. I walked out of the room, greeted again by the candy striped Dendrobium.

I followed the way back to the house's 'lobby,' as I will call it from now on, and followed the noise from there on. I found myself in a room I hadn't noticed when we arrived--it was close to the balcony we exited out into the back of the estate through earlier in the day. It was guarded by white double doors that were so huge, they touched the ceiling. The knob looked like a knob for an ordinary _front door_. I pushed down on the knob, and the heavy oak furnishing glided easily forward.

Sebastian greeted me with an easy smile. "Good evening, Mr. Dragunov," He said, ushering me to a seat across Nikolai. "This is the Dining Hall. Dinner will be served soon, and tonight, you and Mr. Nikolai shall meet with the head of security of Rochefort Enterprises, Mr. Hennigan. Mr. Rochefort wants you to tell him what you will need for your duty here."

I nodded. Okay, what would I need? Nothing much, really. Give me a gun and I'll shoot the bastard. Done. But these are Zaibatsu guys... they're real nasty. They could pull the rug from under your feet and you wouldn't notice until your naked butt hit the glass-bit covered floor.

Maybe an extra guy or two wouldn't be so bad. Besides, I'd get to rest. Then again, from what? Walking around a huge fenced field for nine hours? That's not so bad when you compare it to days on end patrolling a seemingly harmless Siberian Tundra.

I tried to ignore the Southern French accents floating around the air in the form of greetings and thanks. If anyone was trying to talk to me, I didn't know it and because of that ignored the speaker. Instead of opening my mouth to speak, as I was afraid of saying the wrong things to the stocky, aged men that were in the room with me, I nodded to anyone I came into eye contact with. There weren't that many. I heard whispers of mine and Nikolai's name. I don't think I found it offensive; I would feel the same way if there were additional odd looking men wearing my boss' clothes at a meeting.

I tried to focus on other things: I studied the room. I felt like I was in a black and white world; the floors were black and white diagonally patterned tiles, the walls a shade of gray that was, although muted, very luxurious, matching the rest of the house, vintage all-white furnishings that looked like they were pulled out from Bonaparte's time and placed in the hall. The table was decorated with baskets of summer fruit--strawberries, mangoes, pears, apples--odd, for this time of year.

I saw Mr. Rochefort sit down at the head of the table, and tap his glass with a fork.

Smiling, he said, "Dinner is served."

A handful of penguin-suited men carrying plates came in through a door I hadn't noticed earlier. They all had straight faces on as they served the food. Sebastian announced the mystery food when everyone had an individual plate of a bowl of soup.

"Instead of Hors d'œuvres, we are serving you a classic soup recently mastered by our chef. This is Potage Magali, a Mediterranean Tomato Soup with Rice. Enjoy." He turned and left, the penguin-men tailing him without a word.

The room was silent for a moment, save for the clink of spoons amongst other cutlery, and a momentary, synchronized swallow could be heard if one was silent and attentive enough. The peoples' lips curled into satisfied smiles. Following that, observations of the flavors that were the soup.

I picked up my spoon, and angled it slightly to pick up some of the steaming, fragrant soup. Holding it close to my mouth before I put it in my mouth, I inhaled its scent. Delightful. I placed the spoon in my mouth wordlessly, and the world was tentatively on hold.

It was delicious. Oh god, it was delicious.

It took all of my strength not to attack the bowl and drink it the way Japanese do theirs. My eyes lit up at the bold flavors that came into contact with my tastebuds: spicy, but not too much, sweet, but not manufactured sweetness, sour, but not painful. It tasted fresh, and I immediately set my spoon back in the liquid to spoon in some more. I put it in my mouth, and did the same thing again and again until my bowl was practically dry. Every spoonful is like tasting it for the first time--exciting and fulfilling. I wouldn't need a main course if I had a big bowl of this.

I sat back into my chair and relaxed. I could do that here, relax. I let my shoulders down a little, and rested my hands on my lap, on top of each other. I observed everyone else, engaged in buddy-buddy conversation. They were talking about their children and the latest stuff they were able to do with their security forces, when Mr. Rochefort called my attention.

"Mr. Dragunov, Mr. Nikolai, this is Mr. Hennigan, head of security at Rochefort Enterprises. Might you and Mr. Nikolai speak to him during tea this evening?" He said.

Nikolai nodded eagerly. "We would be pleased to discuss what we would need. Isn't that right, Mr. Dragunov?" He glared at me, expecting me to say something.

Nodding, I said, "Absolutely, Mr. Hennigan." My voice was small. I felt belittled, somewhat. All eyes were on me, suddenly. I knew what they were thinking—this was a strange zombie-man, in the clothes of our boss. _What the fuck?_

God, anything I'd do to get rid of that impression.

Thank god, the next course was served. Fish, in traditional order, of course. The penguins came out with plates again, and when they place the fresh dish before us, ever so subtley took away our used bowls. Sebastian appeared, explaining what we were to be served.

"Tonight, we present to you a delectable, melt in your mouth pan-seared filet of salmon, topped with a sugar-soy sauce glaze. Enjoy."

This was something I could get used to—it was light in flavor and extremely tender. The glaze was so simple, so crisp in flavor, that I suddenly had a strong resolve to not go back to eating 'normal' food. This was brilliance on a plate.

Of course, discussion and conversation ensued, while I took refuge in enjoying the food.

Cycle again, penguins appeared, took away the plates while our eyes were on the main course: "Côtes de Veau braisées aux Champignons." Sebastian announced proudly. "Veal steaks braised with Mushrooms and Cream. Enjoy." He left yet again, and in his wake a bunch of curious and not-so-hungry men.

I was first to pick up my fork and knife, and everyone followed suit after me. I cut a piece off of the tiny little cut of meat that I knew was going to leave me speechless yet again and placed it in my mouth. My prediction came true, and I was inspired to paint landscapes. It was delicious. It tasted like home, if home was tender, smoky baby cow meat drenched in butterfat.

Simply. Heaven. My eyes were practically rolled into the back of my head in response to the richness of the flavors. God, I was getting full. And I had eaten just about a cup and a half of food. Remember, I haven't eaten in about… 12 hours. And tiny portions of three things have managed to somehow satiate me.

"Sergei," Nikolai whispered across the table. "I think he's talking to you." He sort of chuckled softly to himself, and gestured with his forehead the man beside me.

I gave him a death stare and lifted by brow slightly. He would get it later. I turned my head to look at the man next to me—slightly aged, tough looking, and intensely staring at the scar on my wrist. I fixed my eyes on his and started shooting daggers. He looked away immediately, and went back to his veal.

I turned back to face Nikolai and he just laughed.

--

After the veal we were served a funky little salad of Lolo Rosa lettuce and alfalfa sprigs with coriander and Japanese vinaigrette. Plates were taken away, and we were given a plate of brie and goat cheese with grapes. I didn't touch the goat cheese. Finally, we were given the chef's masterpiece Napoleons, and I devoured mine quickly, hoping that each bite would somehow find its way to Bonaparte's soul.

Now I was back on the balcony, with Nikolai, Mr. Rochefort, and Mr. Hennigan.

"So," Mr. Hennigan began, skeptically. "You will need 10 armed gunmen, 5 aerial surveillance men, and eight dogs."

"Sounds like a plan." Said Nikolai. He gestured to me. I nodded soberly.

"If I may ask, what are you going to do with them all?" Mr. Hennigan asked, slightly doubtful of Nikolai's plan. I had absolutely no say. I didn't mind, actually. I'm more of a think-on-your-feet kind of guy.

"We're going to place two armed gunmen nearby each side of the perimeter of the estate, patrolling on foot. The extra two will be floating, patrolling the inner parts of the estate along with Dragunov and myself. The dogs will accompany the perimeter guard. The aerial surveillance men will patrol the perimeter, overhead the estate, et cetera, at intervals." Nikolai was trying to be convincing—I knew his plan was to have men around the perimeter so he could lounge around or spar with me. Kind of smart, actually—I approve.

"That sounds good," began Mr. Rochefort. "But for the meantime, as Mr. Hennigan gets these men ready, you will have to be the ones patrolling the grounds."

"Let me tell you, though, I have men knocking at my office door daily, asking for an assignment. This shouldn't be a problem. I'll have them sent over here three nights from now. I'll have to weed out the ones that are unready, but don't worry." Mr. Hennigan smiled as he stood up, extending his hand. Nikolai reached out to shake it firmly. So did I. I looked over the man, and then the estate, and then at Nikolai.

I opened my mouth to speak.

"Pleasure doing business, sir."

* * *

AAAAH I PROMISE TO GET TO THE ROMANCE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER, KEHH. ITS KILLING ME, TOO.

Please r&r!


	3. Chapter III

**Author's Note: Holy shmucks! It's been this long! I'm really sorry to everyone who alerted but didn't get the update that I lied about being posted soon. Well, the next bits are coming along quite nicely, and I hope you enjoy this anyway!**

**Dedicated to my awesome friend Soles and the ever awesome ****SALYSHA**** for proofreading and commenting! (Track Changes still blows my mind!)**

**Chapter III**

Picture this: hair.

Hair flying in all directions, splayed against the floor, wall, space; long locks of platinum blond hair and the occasional flecks of shorter, jet-black locks against it, just _flying… _everywhere.

No, this isn't bad hair day number 22. The shower drain did not push its contents back. I do not have extensions. This is what happens when you spar with Nikolai in the middle of the night, and his "new move from Brazil"—a swift, full-force flying enzuigiri that turned into elevated sleeper hold that became a backslide into a tree—_doesn't_ kill you. Despite that, though, your head feels like it was hit by a Japanese bullet train that was carrying a million tons of Arabian sand. I attempted to stand up and was met with a container ship and an oil tanker's equivalent—if condensed—of a foot in my face. Plus the fact that the leather boots Nikolai had on were steel-capped. I had no time to think, _**what the fuck…?**_ because, of course, I was knocked out cold, and then this started happening.

Now, back to the hair.

Surprisingly, some of it thins out, allowing you to see—oh, who is that uncharming, vampiric creature? Oh, it's me, never mind—**sucking face with a **_**girl**_**.** Note the connotation of _girl_. I found it hilarious, too, in the first few seconds of it happening, but then I realized how freaking HARD I was getting! You know what I mean! And this was just MAKING OUT! Man, was my imaginary self in for a thrill.

I picked up after a bit that this wasn't drunken making out but—from the way she was holding me—more of an expression of a passionate love affair._ Me! Passionate love affair!_ She was holding "me" close—sort of protectively, ironically. I realized how the room was kind of dark, without windows, with a floral scent lacing the air. In a corner of the room was a vase, containing one white flower. It looked like a pointy orchid, but I couldn't quite tell what flower it was because not too many flowers grow in Siberia, you know.

Imaginary me was slowing down, as was the mystery girl with her infinite locks of hair. She looked young, with her lips pale and skin soft and perfect. The eyes, I could not tell; they were shut.

Slowly, I was pulling away, but the mystery girl kept pulling me back. She was saying something to "me," but I could not hear her. Our faces detached, and she opened her eyes. They were a watery blue; their look was soft but guarded.

Not a moment after she opened her eyes, she turned into water and splashed on me. The real me, this time. I didn't realize that it was real water until I opened my eyes to find myself in my room with Nikolai. Do not get the wrong idea…. But yeah, thanks so much, bastard.

He splashed me with water because nothing else would work, and he was in hysterics. I tried to figure out why, and immediately saw the bulge down _there_. I shot him a cold glare, tried to sit up, and couldn't. My elbows buckled and immediately I felt my head—the one on my shoulders-throb uncontrollably.

"Sergei," he was finally able to say, after laughing so hard. He tossed me a packet of little pills. "Here. Paracetamol. These should help with the pain."

Still shooting him with imaginary daggers, I accepted them. "How many?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"Depends on you. Maybe three or four. The recommended dose for normal people is one to two. Double it for guys like us, I guess."

I groaned, attempting to alleviate the pain by massaging my temples. It would have worked if I had been hit with just the enzuigiri, sleeper hold, or backslide into the tree at _half_ force. The combination of those three—at full force, mind you—was deadly, even to me.

I popped the little red pills in my mouth and swallowed them dry. As I reached for the TV remote, Nikolai stopped me.

"Sebastian doesn't know about this," he said. "Keep quiet for now. I took care of the rest. I bugged some trees and set up some monitors around the perimeter while you were out. I think the best thing for the both of us right now is to just sleep, okay? Let's meet up at 6:45 a.m. by the pond. Come out through your balcony, just to be safe."

Taking it all in, I asked, "What time is it?"

Nikolai grinned. "It's only about… quarter past one in the morning." He patted my thigh once, then remembered the _problem_, and patted my arm instead, trying not to laugh. "See you in the morning, Sergei."

He picked up his fist wraps and left my room silently.

God, we were badass.

Five hours later, I woke up, still with a pounding headache. If only it were a hangover, it would be worth something, but it wasn't. I propped myself up on my elbows and touched the side of my head. It was tender, and not in a good way. My throat was dry and scratchy, and it hurt to breathe. I could tell just by the dryness of my eyes that they were bloodshot from Nikolai's hold. My neck also felt stiff and limp at the same time from the backslide contact with the tree.

I was messed up real bad. I scowled for the first time since a certain red-headed Korean slashed my face in action a few years ago. And shot my thigh. And roundhouse-kicked me from atop a car, landing spurs on my brow bone.

But that's a different story. Moving on... I do believe I could use some water before I channel the inner escapist in me as I will later jump out the window. Or something like that.

The sun was still lazily climbing up the red-violet sky when I ended up by the pond. Nikolai hadn't come yet, and it was already 6:50. For all I knew, Sebastian had caught him, and we would get fired. Or he was just oversleeping. For five minutes, I walked around the large oak about seven meters away and then I saw him walk up one of the many gravel paths. He had a jump in his step and a glimmer in his eye, and I groaned at the thought of him probably having found a stash of porn or a wandering bimbo somewhere.

He came to me, smiling for no reason, apparently. We talked a little of how my head was killing me and, after five minutes, went back to the house.

We were completely safe, and Sebastian explained to us how our schedule would be changed. When the reinforcements would come, Nikolai would explain what the gunmen would do, and I would take care of the aerial surveillance men and the dog handlers. Mr. Hennigan would call at around 5 p.m. and tell us how things were going with finding competent men.

He also asked why I looked the way I did, like "the chef had pounded me with a meat mallet." Nikolai told him that I had thought I had seen someone, hit a tree, and rolled down to the pond. He laughed, though carefully, as if he didn't believe. But Nikolai quickly changed the subject.

"With all due respect, sir, we are tired, hungry men. Would you please notify the kitchen that we would have breakfast in our rooms, please?"

He nodded. "All right, then. I'll have breakfast sent up soon. Would you like some tea or coffee with it?"

I just needed water. "Black tea," was what my mouth said. And despite the fact that it would taste really bad, it was what I needed. Urgh, tea.

I pretty much limp-ran back to my room after Nikolai said 'coffee' and peeled off my clothes for a shower.

Towel around my waist, I went to pick up the clothes I had abandoned the night before, from before I changed into Mr. Rochefort's blue suit for dinner. Neatly folded in a pile next to the sink, I slipped them on, hearing some clicks from the door and the clatter of cutlery and porcelain. I left the bathroom barefoot, to find a tray of two triangular pieces of bread on a plate with some sort of thick syrup poured over them—they were scones, apparently—tea, honey, milk, and water. Thank God for water. That, you know, I could drink.

I grabbed the huge goblet of water and downed its contents faster than you could say "killshot." It suppressed the urge—temporarily—to kill Nikolai for doing this to me. Oh, well.

I took my tray out to the balcony, which was warming up as it faced the morning sun partially. I sat down on a wrought-iron chair and set the tray on the matching wrought-iron-and-glass table. From my perspective, the pond was gleaming and the spot where Nikolai and I had sparred could be detected quite easily: there were huge brown patches in the grass. Well, Nikolai could probably use the excuse that he had bugged the place, if we were asked. Yes, he would be the one to explain. It _was_ his fault, anyway.

Then I saw something—movement?

Somewhere near the pond area, on the west side from where I was standing, the ground had moved. And I'm not talking about earthquake movement. I analyzed the spot and recalled: when it was elevated, it was sort of rectangular in shape. Sort of a secret hatch, maybe? And in broad daylight. If that was the Mishima group, man, were they getting _bad_. Bonus points for Nikolai and I, though.

I made a mental note to check it out later in the day or later tonight. But for the present, I stuffed half of a scone into my mouth and regretted it. It wasn't exactly what it looked like—not that it wasn't good, though—but instead of something light and fluffy—and because of the glaze—it was more of a cross between a donut and a tea biscuit. With _whole_ nuts in it. And chewy at that.

Doubtless, it was delicious and I made sure to take smaller bites—damnit—and then a light shower of rain began to spray from the sky. I finished up the scone and drank the tea—ginger tea, apparently—and, instantly, felt calmer. I reviewed how many times I had been assigned to an unfamiliar place to do dirty business. No other time had I felt so confident and had adjusted so fast, and no other time did I have a strange feeling at the pit of my stomach at the same time_._ And usually, when my gut gets into things, things get ugly.

But what could be bothering me so much? Had something similar happened before? Was there something someone wasn't telling me or something going on behind our backs? Who was the mysterious lady in my dreams, and why—no, how—had I gotten that image?

After much introspection, I sighed. And then I made the executive decision to go and harass Nikolai for almost mauling me.


End file.
